


Rescusitation

by bluethecleric



Series: Pinocchio [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (happy ending in part 2), Ambiguous/Open Ending, Canon-Typical Body Horror, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Getting Back Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Sexual Dollification, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Past Relationship(s), Physical Abuse, Psychological Trauma, Recovery, Tim Lives AU, Triggers, content warnings ahoy:
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:02:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23738026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluethecleric/pseuds/bluethecleric
Summary: Jon felt a chill as he trailed his grip to Tim’s hands and lifted them into the light. Every knuckle, though still skin and bone, was divided in the middle by a mechanical hinge, like that of an artist's model. Jon ran his thumb over one, suppressing a gag at the feeling of flesh taking such shapes.“God... What happened to you?” Jon murmured.“They took me, made me into something new," Tim answered, his smile faltering.For three months, Tim had been a captive of the Circus of the Other. For three months, he had been Nikola's plaything, only alive to smile and to suffer. For three months she'd broken him, changed him, and made him think it was what he was meant for. The Circus was his home, now. This was his life, now.Until, suddenly, it wasn't anymore.AU: Nikola kidnapped Tim instead of Jon. Rated mature for graphic depictions of abuse and subsequent trauma. Chapter-specific content warnings will be in the chapter notes.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims/Tim Stoker
Series: Pinocchio [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1709899
Comments: 15
Kudos: 92





	Rescusitation

The Archivist— Jonathan, she wanted to call him— was already staring when her door opened. He would not have recognized the door; every piece of it had changed with Helen’s intrusion. Yellow paint peeled away to reveal a swirling oak grain, and the black finish of the handle faded to shining bronze. It was a new door for a new Self, wretched as such a thing was.

Jonathan would not have recognized the door, but he recognized her— or, Her. He stood from his desk, gaping, glancing from her door to his office door and back again, and altogether looking rather like the task of counting to two would be his demise. Helen folded her arms and chose to ignore the clash of familiarity and discomfort of limbs that were at once brand new and the ones she’d had for her entire life.

At length, Jonathan found his voice and asked, “... Helen? Helen Richardson?”

“That is the name you would have called me,” Helen answered. 

“Y-You’re— but, where’s Michael?”

“No more anywhere than Helen is now. But he is not me anymore, so I suppose he is… less.”

Jon opened and closed his mouth, as if chewing on air was how one summoned words into being. His confusion was almost amusing to watch— it would have been, if Helen’s mind wasn’t filled with its own confounding spirals in need of untwisting.

“Why are you here?” Jonathan asked, though he hardly seemed settled on the choice.

Helen shivered. The Archivist was coming into his powers, then.

“This is where Helen came the last time she was frightened of me,” Helen said. “And she— _I,_ Jonathan, am as scared as I have ever been.”

“I— What?” Jonathan’s revulsion was plain in his face. “You want, what, _comfort?”_

“That would imply I thought you could give it,” Helen said, and Jonathan’s sneer faltered. “But that’s not the only reason I came here. I found something that belonged to you.” Jon’s expression paused on apprehension as Helen turned back to her hallway. 

The figure had not moved an inch from where she’d left it, and she imagined that if she did not intervene, it would not move until exhaustion or dehydration caused it simply to collapse. She felt a curious itch at the thought, but now was not the time for such investigations. Instead, she curled a finger, and the figure ambled forward with measured, graceful strides. She guided it forward with a hand on its shoulder. 

As it passed, smiling, from her hallway into the light of the office, she said to it, “Welcome home, Tim.”

* * *

“The poor thing must be broken!” Nikola crooned, driving her knee into the small of Tim’s back. “I know no doll of mine would ever think of slouching!” She wrenched his arms backwards until something— many somethings— in his spine popped. His next breath came in a wheeze, and he wondered if this was when a normal man would have found himself paralyzed from the waist down. 

“Oh, would you listen to that,” Nikola exclaimed, cupping one cool plastic hand over his throat. Tim could barely suppress his shiver. “It thinks it’s become a squeaky toy! No wonder it’s behaving so poorly!”

“Of course, I-I’m sorry I’ve been foolish, Miss,” Tim laughed, pulling a relieved smile onto his face. He wasn’t disobedient, merely ignorant. He clenched his jaw to hold the smile in place as Nikola cracked his back again. Tears blurred his vision, and for a moment all he could see were the flashing colors of the circus lights leaking through the gap where the door to his alcove had drifted open. Nikola set him on his feet, and pain lanced up through his back as he corrected his posture. If not for the smile, his teeth would have been chattering as a tremor settled into his body. Nikola would never have forgiven such an unsightly offense, however. At least he was free to weep; she liked watching his makeup run.

Nikola placed her hands on Tim’s cheeks. “Now, sweetie, you’re not going to misbehave anymore, are you? You won’t make a fool of yourself if I take you out to play today? I’d hate to have to throw you in with the clowns again, but sometimes it seems like that’s all you’re good for.”

“I only want to play with you today,” Tim promised, shaking his head.

“Good boy, Timothy,” Nikola said, patting his cheek. “Now come along, the dancers need work done on their frocks. It’s time for dress up!”

Tim fell into stride at Nikola’s heel as she descended the stairwell into the theater proper. Landing on his left foot drove needles of pain into his aching back, but a good doll didn’t limp, and Nikola wouldn’t have less than the best. He raised his chin in the way Nikola had taught him, and as if on cue a passing acrobat trailed her fingers over his throat. He flashed her a smile, and she giggled into her porcelain palm.

The Circus of the Other did not sleep, and was already alive and vibrant— or, rather, it had never ceased to be so— when Tim entered. Tim was, as far as he knew, the only being in attendance that still required sleep. Though Nikola had changed him— his body was different now, more flexible, more resilient, and every inch of him had been polished to the perfection of a marble statue— she had elected to leave him as flesh and blood. He alone needed food and rest, but Nikola, at the very least, was careful enough to keep him alive. Or maybe his needs were just part of her fun. She certainly exhibited all the sadistic glee of someone who enjoyed having others’ lives in her hands, always a mere breath away from being dropped and shattering at her feet.

Nikola wove effortlessly through the roiling crowds of inhuman things, but Tim found more than a couple of elbows in his sides as he followed behind. It was beautiful, nonetheless, seeing a place like this come to life; although straw and steel and plastic and porcelain held no more warmth than the frozen stone that had sat for Nikola’s last performance, the air here was filled with light and laughter and song as dozens, perhaps hundreds of performers gathered to rehearse their masterpiece.

Tim was not one of them; he was merely an appointment built to adorn the space at Nikola’s whim. Where she bid him stand, he stood. Whatever game Nikola wished to play, whether house or tea party or dress up, he smiled in excitement. And now, he raised his arms and lifted his feet to be dressed without complaint— even as Nikola crushed his ribs into a dress that appeared to be sized for a child. His job, Nikola told him, was to look pretty and play nice; that was what good dolls did. 

Tim was, on his best days, a good doll. Today, however, was not one of his best days.

He had stopped trying to keep track of the time long ago, but he imagined that hours must have passed since he’d donned the first of many, many gowns. Nikola danced around him as she worked, humming a jaunty tune, but between the model poses and persistent lack of oxygen from the constricting dresses, Tim was beginning to wobble.

“Oh, is the poor thing getting tired? You know, it’s a good thing I didn’t make you a dancer if just trying on their dresses wears you out!” Nikola cooed, giving the laces a playful tug.

Tim shook his head and wheezed, “I’ll keep on playing dress up if you want. I’m not that tired at all— just, dizzy… ish.”

Nikola giggled and squished Tim’s face between her palms. “Just listen to you, trying so hard to tell a pretty lie. Did you forget that you’re not an actor, Timothy? You’re not a dancer either, but these dresses still need hemming. I guess you’ll have to just pull yourself together until we’re done here, won’t you?” Nikola laughed again and pushed Tim away.

Tim stumbled, his vision swirling from the sudden motion. He flailed, unsure whether he was trying to catch himself or break his fall, but his hand found purchase on Nikola’s still-outstretched wrist. He righted himself, but went wide-eyed when he realized what he’d done. He jerked his hand back and stepped away from Nikola, who was silently staring at the offended wrist. Tim put on an apologetic smile and said softly, “I’m sorry, sorry, that was a mistake.”

Nikola’s voice was low and dark when she spoke. “Oh, Timothy, you _idiot_ thing.”

Nikola lashed out a hand and took Tim by the throat. Tim choked a gasp and begged, “No, please, I didn’t mean to touch your arm—!”

“Good! Dolls! Don’t! Grab!” Nikola cried, taking his wrist with her free hand and pulling, pulling, _pulling,_ until his arm came loose with a loud pop.

There was no blood, no tearing, no breaking of bone; his arm was simply gone, popped out of place like that of a barbie doll. It was most akin to the pain of a dislocation, not of having a limb ripped clean off, but it still hurt. _Good lord_ but it hurt, and Tim could not contain his cry. 

Nikola scoffed and lifted him by the neck. It took all of the will Tim had to go limp in Nikola’s grip as she carried him like this all the way back to his alcove and threw him inside. He fell roughly against the back wall and crumpled to the ground. His arm landed on top of him with a similar level of ceremony, and he pressed his lips together to drown his whimpering.

“Maybe I’ll feed you to the Anglerfish,” Nikola hissed as she tore at the laces of the dress. Tim sucked in a breath at the release, but made himself light-headed. “Do you think it prefers red or blue?” Nikola didn’t wait for an answer before plucking a suit from the rack overhead. She moved and pulled him like a ragdoll as she dressed him in the suit. All the while, she muttered insults and threats under her breath, but the alcove was quiet enough for Tim to hear them all clearly. Useless. Waste of parts. Garbage.

With Tim dressed, Nikola lifted him and set him on his feet. She cupped her hands over his cheeks and tilted her head— Tim imagined she would be wearing a piteous smile if she had the means. “Be glad that you have such a pretty face, Timothy,” she crooned. “It almost makes you worth the trouble.”

Without another word, she folded up the discarded dress, stepped out into the pulsing lights of the circus, and slammed the door behind her.

Tim couldn’t even hear the choir through the walls. He was alone. He gasped and hiccupped in the dark, glad at least that he wouldn’t be able to see the bruises that were surely forming across his body. Nikola had tucked his dislocated arm up into the sleeves, and it was only kept from falling to the floor by the tightly buttoned cuff. Everything hurt by now, but he reached around and lifted the arm upwards, lining up the ball at the top with the empty socket of his shoulder. Gritting his teeth, he braced the arm between himself and the wall and _pushed._

It took several moments of straining and groaning, but suddenly the arm popped back into place, drawing a moan of relief from Tim’s chest. He hissed then at the burning pins-and-needles feeling that overcame the entire limb, like he’d hit his funny bone on a swinging sledgehammer. He curled and uncurled his fist until feeling returned, and allowed himself just a moment in the dark to lean against the wall and catch his breath. His body ached. 

He didn’t realize he’d dozed off until colored lights pricking his eyes made him flinch upright and jump to posture, hopefully before his respite was noticed. He blinked against the light, awaiting an order, but as his eyes adjusted…

The lights were not those of the circus. The door that had opened was not the door to his alcove. The woman looking down at him, though no less peculiar in appearance, was not Nikola.

“Do you want to come in?” the woman asked.

Tim gaped. That was the hallway, the one with Michael. But where was Michael? And who in the world was this woman?

Tim’s voice shook when he spoke. “I don’t suppose we’ve met somewhere before?”

“You belonged to the Institute,” the woman said. 

The Institute. Good lord, the _Institute._ Tim hadn’t thought of it in… well, however much time had passed since Nikola trained it out of him. Now the name alone made his heart rate spike and his palms sweat, guilt and shame draining the blood from his face. He smiled and nodded.

“I— Helen went there once,” she continued, gesturing to her face. “You showed her through the archive when she got lost. She thought you were handsome.”

Tim couldn’t say he recognized her. The archives had always been a bit of a maze, and it was hardly uncommon for someone to wander down and need guidance back to the light of day. He began to inch backwards from the door, and asked, “But how does that relate to me right now?”

“I need to see the Archivist. I think you do, too.”

The Archivist.

The Archivist.

The Archivist.

The Archivist

_Jon._

Tim staggered backwards against the wall, numb to the pains that the impact aggravated. “Jon came back?” he whispered.

Helen’s eyebrows twitched upwards and Tim righted himself. “Yes,” Helen answered slowly, “and I think he would like it if the same were true for you.”

Tim’s heart was pounding. “Was Martin right that Jon was innocent?” he asked in a rush.

“If you mean that Jon did not kill the old man, then yes, he was. That blood is on Elias’s hands.”

Tim gaped. _“Elias_ was the murderer? But why?”

“Tim, there are people waiting who are far better equipped than I to tell you all the things you’ve missed.”

Tim ducked his head, but his thoughts were racing. _Jon, Jon, Jon._ Jon was innocent. Jon was back. Tim could… Tim could go to him. He could…

His breath came short and shallow, and he swallowed hard against the panic rising in his chest. His place was here. Nikola would know. “I really don’t think I’m allowed to leave,” he gasped. Even if he did leave, even if Jon welcomed him after everything that had passed between them, Nikola could find him again, and then she would kill him, if not worse. It was safer to stay. Helen was going to get him killed. He couldn’t go. He wouldn’t.

Helen watched him impassively. He shook his head and turned away from her.

Helen sighed. “Look at me,” she ordered, and Tim obeyed. Helen stepped back into the hallway. “Come inside,” she ordered, and, in spite of himself, Tim obeyed. Helen closed the door and leaned against it. “Stand there, and don’t move. This will only take a moment.”

And Tim obeyed.

The colors of the hallway made Tim dizzy as Helen closed her eyes and willed her door to its destination. He remembered running along this rug before, lost for days that had only been minutes. Martin had been with him then. Was Martin waiting for him too? Tim took in a breath as Helen placed her hand on the doorknob. “But… do you really think they’ll have me back?” he asked quietly.

“We’ll know soon enough,” Helen answered, and opened the door.

* * *

"Welcome home, Tim."

Jon felt like his breath had been punched out of his chest. Tim stepped out of the hallway, smiling ear to ear despite the muddled tear tracks that ran through his colorful makeup. Jon stumbled backwards, seeking the stability of his desk to lean against lest his legs give out under him. He gasped into his hand as he struggled to find anything at all to say.

Tim was here. Tim was safe. It seemed so impossible— it had been over a month since Jon returned to his position as Archivist only to find out that Tim was missing— and what’s more, that he had already been gone for two months without Jon ever knowing about it. The police had performed their base investigations, but, as seemed to be the trend, the case was largely abandoned when they learned that Tim worked at the Magnus Institute. If Tim was to return, it would have to be an act of his own initiative or that of a miracle.

Whether Jon was willing to call Helen anything akin to divine would have to wait.

Tim was here. 

“I never thought I’d see your face again,” Tim said.

Jon pushed himself up and away from the desk and hurried forward. Tim started to step forward to meet him but froze, and instead waited in place for Jon to come to him. Jon's brow furrowed with concern as he grasped Tim’s forearms and looked him up and down for any sign of injury. The suit he wore was ornate, embroidered with sparkling flowers in colors that matched what was left of his makeup, but it left most of his body covered, all but his head and his… his hands. Jon felt a chill as he trailed his grip to Tim’s hands and lifted them into the light. Every knuckle, though still skin and bone, was divided in the middle by a mechanical hinge, like that of an artist's model. Jon ran his thumb over one, suppressing a gag at the feeling of flesh taking such shapes.

“God... What happened to you?” Jon murmured.

“They took me, made me into something new,” Tim answered, his smile faltering. “Y-You look upset. Are you upset with me?”

Jon’s head snapped up, eyes wide. “W-What? No! God, no! I just, I just c-can’t understand how you’re… You’re just here! We didn’t even know if you were alive! All this time and you’ve been— you were _taken,_ they did… _this_ to you, they _hurt_ you, and we had _no idea—”_ Jon gasped and squeezed down on Tim’s hands. “Martin. Martin needs to know!"

Jon let go, yelling Martin’s name as he stumbled to his office door. “Martin, I need you in here now!” he called as he wrenched the door open.

Martin looked up from his desk. “What? Why? What’s the matter?”

“Just— please, Martin, it’s urgent,” Jon said, hoping he didn’t sound too frantic. He saw Melanie give Martin a look as he stood, but she said nothing. Jon ducked back into his office, clasping his arms across his chest and noting only briefly that Helen and her door had vanished, leaving him alone with Tim. The office door creaked as Martin stepped inside.

“I-Is everything alright? You sounded— wh- Tim?!” Martin yelped. Tim gasped and covered his mouth with his hands. Jon opened his mouth to speak, but when Tim dropped his hands he was still smiling, though his eyes were watery with fresh tears. Jon shuffled back as Martin approached Tim.

Martin enveloped Tim in a hug. “My god, you’re ok!” he gasped, laughter overcoming his words. “We’ve all been so worried— Where were you? How did you get back?”

“The woman in the hallway helped me out,” Tim said, but his voice cracked with emotion.

“The… woman?” Martin stole a glance at Jon over Tim’s shoulder.

“The Distortion isn’t Michael anymore,” Jon explained. “I have a feeling it won't be gone for long, so... I’ll look into it further.”

“She said her name was Helen, didn’t she?” Tim offered, though his words were somewhat muffled by Martin’s collar.

“That’s… sort of weird, but—”

“There’s, um, a more pressing matter,” Jon interrupted. “Tim, your… your hands.”

Tim pulled out of the hug and nodded, holding up his hands for Martin to see. Martin’s eyes went wide and he gaped, gingerly taking one of Tim’s hands and turning it over. “Is your whole body like this?” he asked. Tim shrugged.

“She wanted me to be her perfect doll. The circus changed the way my body works, and now… I guess it’s just the way I am.”

“... Tim, you are… remarkably calm about all this,” Jon observed.

“That could be shock,” Martin cut in. “We should probably wait until Tim is settled, make sure he’s actually ok before we start prying.”

“Oh, right, you’re right,” Jon said. “Document storage is probably still safer than anywhere else, and as it’s not currently occupied—”

“I, uh, I did leave a couple changes of clothes down there,” Martin said, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, “If you want to, o-or if you need, you can wear any of them. Probably more comfortable than a tuxedo.”

“I’m fine with wearing anything you want,” Tim said with a grin. 

Martin gaped and turned pink in the cheeks. Jon cleared his throat, and Martin refocused. “Right, come on then. Let’s go and get you settled.”

Jon wanted to follow, to watch Tim, to make sure what he was seeing was real, but Martin was right. He didn't need to be examined like a lab rat, he needed to rest. Jon stayed behind, and silently watched them go.

Once the door closed behind Martin and Tim, Jon rounded his desk and collapsed into his chair. Tim’s reemergence was so sudden and so… threatening. This Helen-version of the Distortion seemed to hold a less hostile opinion of Jon than Michael did, but that hardly meant anything coming from the mouth that fueled itself with madness and lies. And for that matter, how could he be sure that Tim was really Tim? The thought that Tim had been taken and replaced the same way Sasha had, it settled like ice in his stomach. Tim gone, and them left with a sing-songing mechanical replica.

But if that was wrong, and if it _was_ him, then… 

He’d said it was the circus that had made him the way he was. There was only one circus he could have been talking about, and if he’d really been trapped there for the past three months, he would need support while he adjusted to normal life again. Paranoia had ruined them before; Jon knew that now. Doubting Tim wouldn’t help anything if he was already gone, but it could make things so much worse if he was really here.

Jon stared at the patch of wall where Helen’s door had been. Michael had always tucked his door away in the corner, where it could be missed or mistaken for a closet at a glance. Helen had placed hers to the right of his office door, out in the light, not making any attempt to hide.


End file.
